


talk about silence, and violence (deadmen, and spiders)

by edelwoodsouls



Series: the spider and the wolf [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, Fluff, Hunt Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Light Angst, M/M, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Tension, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Web Avatar Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edelwoodsouls/pseuds/edelwoodsouls
Summary: By the time Tim realises what Martin is, it's already too late.[dual avatars au]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: the spider and the wolf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195592
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. pax

**Author's Note:**

> title is a lyric from "violence and spiders" by Saint PHNX  
> everyone's a little ooc because this is an au but shhhhh  
> everyone is trans bcos i say  
> this is vaguely for martim week but the prompts are out of order so i won't tag it til the end  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [present - mid season 2]  
> pax - "peace, truce"

The Archives at night is one of Tim's favourite places.

For all that he _hates_ it here - hates the weight of Beholding bearing down on him, how Jonah Magnus stares at him through the body of a dead man, and Jon slips steadily into paranoia before his eyes - the Archives are also the one place he can feel peace.

It's not that it's quiet, or even calm. There's an energy, a chaos, contained in the very walls of the building. The Archives, especially, thrum with power. And yet just sitting here, still, sets something inside him at ease, as everything washes over him.

Most likely, it's because the Eye itches the scratch in his soul which hungers for knowledge. It sits in the pit of his stomach, ravenous for points to connect and leads to follow - something, anything, to _hunt_.

He tries to ignore this fact, this similarity, on his good days.

At night, at least, none of the Eye's servants are around to annoy him, to distract him. Like buzzing mayflies, they have fallen away with the moon, leaving him blissfully alone in the dark.

Or, almost. He can hear, with the sharpness of a wild animal's keen senses, the clink and clatter of Martin in the tiny archives break room. Making tea, stirring sugar into one- no, two cups.

Of course.

He allows himself a small smile, despite himself.

He should hate Martin. He should have torn his throat out and dumped the body somewhere no one could find it the moment he realised just _what_ Martin is.

Instead, he watched as Martin spun him close in gossamer web, and thanked him for it.

As Martin shuffles into the office, Tim pretends to be busy. His eyes flicker across the words of the crumbling tome in his hands - some account of nineteenth century circus routes he's read a hundred times before - but he takes in nothing.

His gaze catches on Martin, instead.

When they first met, Tim hadn't thought much of him. He was quiet, and nice, and that was about all he could say of the man. The kind of guy who would have been _a pleasure to have in class_ back when he was five. The kind of guy who had never learnt to say no, or set boundaries, or take anything for himself.

And Tim, from a lifetime of tooth-and-nail academia and blood-soaked hunting, had laughed. _That kid'll be out to the wolves in weeks_ , he'd said to Sasha, as they watched Martin fluster his way around Jon, cheeks pink, eyes flickering.

And Sasha, frowning through a guilty laugh, had agreed.

That was over a year ago. Oh, how the times change.

Martin hovers in the doorway, watching Tim. They watch each other a lot these days. He's paused conveniently in a pool of moonlight cast through the slitted windows of the basement. It haloes him in silver, glinting off his curls, his glasses, his crooked teeth.

The perfect colour to match his tongue.

"You're staring," Martin says softly, shifting his head just so to look over the rim of his glasses. It's a look that makes Tim want to curl himself into the folds of Martin's mustard yellow jumper and push him against one of the bookcases all at once.

"So are you," Tim replies, throwing his feet up casually on the desk in front of him and flicking a page of his book. "Whatcha got there?"

"You tell me."

Tim raises an eyebrow, then closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the space and etching them into a map behind his eyes. The smell of dust and ink and paper. The tang of metal and coarseness of fabric. The apple going mouldy in his desk that he hasn't bothered to get rid of. The smell of Martin, pine and chamomile and the hint of something needle-sharp.

And finally, the tea.

Tim opens his eyes and grins. "Rooibos, with vanilla and ginger. That loose leaf you bought from Borough Market two months ago."

"Very good," Martin smiles, finally stepping out of the moonlight to carry the tea over. He sets the two mugs down on the desk. "But you forgot the milk."

" _Mine_ doesn't have milk," Tim sniffs, curling his fingers around the mug gratefully. Somehow, it's exactly the right temperature. The heat of the liquid and fire of the ginger set something aflame inside him as he sips.

"Touche."

Martin hops up onto the desk, perching to face Tim. His legs swing back and forth as he blows puffs of steam off his mug, silver curls that seem to stream from his tongue.

They watch each other over the rims of their mugs, basking in the quiet that is anything but silent. Tim can hear the mice in the ceiling, and the night bus passing by outside the window. He can hear the water rushing through the pipes beneath their feet. He can hear every steady beat of Martin's heart.

Who knows what Martin can hear in return.

"Late night?" Martin asks casually, resting back on an arm to peer curiously at Tim. The tea has fogged over his glasses, but Tim is sure Martin can still see him perfectly fine.

Maybe not with the eyes Tim can _see_ , but still.

"It's nice here," Tim shrugs. "I can hide. From everyone but you, of course."

"Why would you hide from me? Then you wouldn't get tea hand delivered to your desk."

"Very true."

"Anyone in particular we're hiding from this evening?"

Tim sighs and leans back in his chair. "You know who."

"Ah." Martin stops swinging his legs and rests one against Tim's. Light, but solid. Reassuring, an anchor to the present, a reminder of the body he inhabits. Or maybe an invitation. Every movement Martin makes has a purpose, and whilst Tim is learning slowly to translate, he's still a long way off.

And Martin keeps changing the meanings.

"He followed me home last night," Tim says. "Different carriage on the tube, different side of the street, several paces behind. It was almost impressive. I'd peg him for the hunt, if not for the fact that the Eye's tied him up in so many knots he's basically married to it."

"You know as well as I do that he's got every entity vying for his soul. Or did you not notice the worms. Or the spiders."

"I thought those were yours," Tim frowns.

Martin looks innocently over his mug. "Did you?"

Through the refraction of his glasses, he has eight eyes.

"Should've known better than to assume, I s'pose."

"You and I know better than anyone that one entity does not monogamy mean."

Tim resists from rolling his eyes. Of _course_ he knows that. The urge of the Hunt led him to the clutches of the Eye. He can feel, just beyond the edges of his perception, a multitude of entities twisting around his thoughts, tugging him in fourteen directions. His hunger for destruction and fire, for the solace of darkness, for blood slick on his fingertips.

He tries not to think about his own capacity for the Strange.

When he looks at Martin, he sees the ghost of silver strings looping around his limbs. He feels that gravity of presence that only the Watcher can bring. The mist that curls around his ankles, laps hungrily at his feet. The swooping in his stomach that could be the dizzy effects of the Spiral, or perhaps just the butterflies that Martin sparks with every gesture.

"He thinks I killed Gertrude," Tim continues.

"Did you?"

Tim just arches a single, slitted eyebrow.

"Oh, fine, I know it wasn't you," Martin rolls his eyes. "I'm just teasing you."

"You're _insulting_ me, Martin," Tim clutches mockingly at his heart. "That kill was messy and imprecise. Could you really see me not hitting the mark first try? Could you see me using a _gun_?"

"I suppose not," Martin concedes, inclining his head. "You know who it really was, I suppose?"

"Don't you?"

"I asked first."

"You _know_ I know, you're just being a dick."

"I think that's _your_ department of excellence."

"And I think that's _Jon's_ department of excellence."

"You're welcome to tell him who really killed Gertrude and throw him off your scent any time."

"As if he'd believe me. 'Oh, Jon, by the way, your boss? The guy who gave you that job you're ridiculously underqualified and overpaid for so that you'd feel some sense of loyalty towards him? Yeah, he's been manipulating you all this time. Also, he killed your predecessor. Good luck'. Yeah, Martin, that would go just swell."

"So you'd rather he follows you around," Martin deadpans. "What if he decides to break into your flat? I doubt you've bothered to hide the circus murder board and the frankly obscene number of knives you own."

"I own exactly the right number of knives, thank you very much. And what about _your_ flat, huh? Don't your lot sleep in cobwebs and eat flies for breakfast?"

"You're just jealous Jon will probably see my bed before you do," Martin smirks.

Tim is glad the darkness of the room does something to hide the flush in his cheeks.

"Anyway," Martin continues, "my flat is just as normal as the rest of me. A record player, and a double bed, and enough canned food to last a surprise two week siege by worms."

"A real adult," Tim teases. "I bet you do your taxes on time and everything."

"And remember to put my bins out the night before collection, don't forget that one."

"Show off."

"Just because you sleep on a bare mattress and eat food straight from the tin so you have more time to focus on being murderous doesn't make you better than me, Tim."

"Then maybe you should invite me over for dinner some day, show me what real cooking and a real bed looks like."

"I might just."

Even in the moonlight, Tim can pick out the increase of speed in Martin's heartbeat, the dust of pink underneath his moonwashed freckles. His lips are parted slightly, revealing a glint of teeth, a hint of tongue. It's these moments that make every other infuriating second worth it. When he finally throws Martin for a loop, or makes him behave despite himself.

He lives for the moments when he can make Martin break.

"I think," Martin breathes, setting his mug on the desk with a deliberate clink, "that Jon's probably gone to sleep by now."

"So?"

"So, he won't notice you not coming home tonight."

Tim's breath shorts out. "Oh."

Martin's expression turns serious, in that soft, delicate way only Martin can be. "Unless you don't want to?"

"Oh, I want to."

That grin - a sharp, tooth-filled expression he saves only for Tim - returns, sparking something hungry in Tim's chest. Everything is about the chase and the hunt and the dance - a constant journey towards a vanishing destination.

It's- refreshing, what Martin gives him. A hunt with an end goal. A war of power tipping back and forth.

And someone who sees every broken, bloody edge of him and, instead of running away screaming, runs _closer_. He's sure that, without this strange tension, their shared knowledge and murky pasts, Martin Blackwood wouldn't spare him a second glance.

On nights like this, he's almost glad the circus scattered his life into ribbons. As if Martin could collect them from the ground around him and weave them into something beautiful, if he let him.

Martin reaches forward, plucks Tim's half-full mug from his clutches and sets it beside his own. "Let me lead?" he asks softly, taking Tim's hand and running a thumb over his knuckles.

Tim nods, wordless, breathless, and follows.


	2. provocare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [past - late season 1]  
> provocare - "to challenge, provoke"

He's forgotten what it's like to not be exhausted.

Sleep is not a necessity, hasn't been for a long time, since he first felt the call of the hunt in his blood - but exhaustion has still made a home in his bones over the years.

He's been running for so long, he can barely remember the lilting polka music that first drove him on.

Working at the Institute dulls the ache, somewhat. Back in Research, he was left to his own devices, able to hunt for anything that took his fancy. And if he spent a little too long reading through every manuscript on theatre and freakshows and everything in between - well, every academic has their specialty. His was hardly the weirdest to grace these halls.

And then Jon had asked him to join him in the Archives. Better pay, a smaller team, and - though Jon didn't know it - an intimacy with the Eye that would keep him protected from scrutiny.

It sounded like a dream.

He should've known better.

He still remembers that day, when Jon had approached him - wild eyed, carding fingers through his hair with enough force to tear it out.

Tim had laughed. " _You're_ the new Archivist?"

If Jon noticed the capital letter, he didn't say anything.

"Come with me," Jon had asked, eyes wide and pleading. Those eyes - back then, Tim would've done anything for those eyes.

Now he thinks about it, Jon is the _perfect_ Archivist. Before Tim had joined the Institute, he'd done his research on the Eye. Going into the lion's den made the most sense, for his end goal, but it wouldn't do well to be unprepared.

And he's always leaned a little towards Beholding, if he's honest.

He knows all about Jonah Magnus. About Gertude, and how basically every avatar under the sun (and in the dark) wanted her flesh on its claws, or burnt to cinders, or flayed and put out to dry.

It's a miracle it took her that long to 'go missing'.

But _Jon_. He isn't the indiscriminate, desolate flame his predecessor was. Where she would shoot first and not bother with questions later, he would die for the smallest mystery. _Has_ nearly died, and taken his assistants with him.

Pulling Jon's arse out of the fire is starting to take its toll. This latest thing with Jane Prentiss he's sure is only the beginning of things getting much worse.

He's barely thought of the circus in weeks.

Now he finds himself catching some semblance of rest wherever he can. On the tube to work, and at his desk when Jon has his door shut or is off dancing to Elias' tune.

It's one such day when things change. Jon is interviewing a new statement giver and likely traumatising them in the process. Sasha is out being legitimately productive, and Martin is tucked away in some forgotten corner of the archives, freaking out about worms.

Tim basks in the rare moment of quiet. Tucks his head into his arms and rests on the desk, listening to the steadiness of his own heartbeat, calming his breaths to the point where he's barely breathing at all. He is still, poised and waiting.

For what, he doesn't know. But he's forgotten what it's like, to be on the precipice of the hunt. That moment of utter still, before the pump of blood in his veins and thunder of fleeing footsteps getting closer and closer.

"Late night?"

Tim's head shoots up, so fast he feels his neck crack in protest.

Martin stands over him, holding two mugs of tea in outstretched hands. He's dressed in the same outfit as yesterday, and the day before, though he's finally given up on getting the creases out of his clothes. It was certainly a memorable experience, walking into the break room to find Martin trying to iron his clothes with a microwaved plate.

it's a bit endearing, if he's honest, seeing the usually stylised, put together man genuinely dishevelled.

But people don't just _sneak up_ on Timothy Stoker. They _can't_ sneak up on him, with his senses sharpened to a razor's edge, the whole world at the tips of his fingers.

But Martin didn't make a sound. No footsteps, he _swears_ there weren't footsteps. No heartbeat, no breathing.

He listens now, and there they are, clear as day - gentle breathing, a steady heart.

Too steady.

"You okay there?" Martin asks, inclining his head. "Looks like you had a late one. I made you some tea, thought it might help."

He sets the mug down on the table between them like a peace offering. Tim watches, transfixed, as steam shimmers in the air above it.

"Green tea. And I managed to grab some lemon and honey from the canteen for you."

Tim frowns. "You know my order?"

"Of course," Martin shrugs. "Jon is black tea, no milk, no sugar. Sasha is a soya latte usually, or green tea when she's here. I know everyone's orders."

"Why?"

"Why not? I like being useful."

"No one's that nice."

"I'm just observant, Tim. I have eyes." Martin tilts his head, and Tim could swear-

No. He's just tired. Seeing things.

"Well, thanks for the tea," Tim sighs eventually. He wraps his fingers around the mug and takes a sip, surprised to find the liquid not scalding. "How's living in the archives treating you?"

"It's nice, actually. I'm saving a fortune on the commute."

"I can imagine," Tim snorts.

"People seem to forget I'm here."

Tim raises his head to look at Martin, who seems entirely at ease with what he's just said. He's never seen Martin this at ease, actually - he's always nervous, or flustered, or distracted, or earnest.

Today he looks _calm_. There's a quiet power about him that makes Tim look twice. He sees the small smile tugging at the corner of Martin's mouth. The way his glasses are tilted at a very particular angle that never needs adjusting. The way every crease and ripple of his clothes falls just so.

Tiny things. Inconsequential things. Certainly not patterns, certainly not clues, that anything is wrong. What could he possibly be thinking of?

But his instincts are never wrong, and something here definitely is.

The unease churns in his gut as every sense sharpens, honed in on this moment.

The adrenaline that fizzes in his veins makes the feeling of falling absolutely worth it.

"Is that a good thing?" he asks, nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair.

Martin's grin sharpens as he makes very deliberate eye contact with Tim. As if he can sense the shift between them. "I think so. It's a lot easier to get things done if people don't notice you, don't you think?"

Tim opens his mouth to reply, unsure of what witty retort he's going to counter with, when the door to their shared office space slams open, and Jon marches in.

He looks even more pissed off than usual, if that's possible. The invasion of worms, the pressures of a job he's underqualified for, the supernatural things he adamantly refuses to notice, are all starting to get him.

"Everything okay, Jon?" Martin asks. Tim watches, transfixed, as the calmly confident man he had just been talking to vanishes beneath a mask of flustered movements and pink cheeks. It's as if two entirely different people live beneath his skin.

"Just Elias," Jon grumbles, stalking across the space towards his own office. He's become suddenly more cordial to Martin since Jane Prentiss' attack - before he would have simply ignored the other man.

Did Martin plan it that way?

The thought comes to him out of nowhere, but it sticks. Everything about Martin is a practiced performance, a shroud of nonthreatening and kindness and forgetability. He gets on with everyone, and yet no one seems that close to him.

Tim wouldn't be able to recall five personal facts about the man if he tried.

"I'll make you some tea," Martin calls out to their boss as the door shuts with a thud.

He watches Martin walk away, and something hungry and bloody kindles in the pit of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent more tiime than i'd like to admit deciding tim's tea preferences


	3. esuriens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [present - late season 2]  
> esuriens - "hungering, hungry"

"You look hungry," Martin says, brushing a stray, sweat-slicked hair out of Tim's face.

Tim rolls over to look at him. In the afterglow, Martin is as disorganised and unguarded as Tim has ever seen him. His curls are flattened against the pillow, his cheeks flushed. His binder is starkly dark against his sun-starved skin, which is warm, almost feverish, to the touch.

"I could always eat. Or go again, if you give me a little while."

"That's not what I meant." Martin's eyes watch him in a way that makes him feel open, and vulnerable, prey and protected all at once.

"Then what did you mean, o cryptic one, spinner of mysteries?"

"I quite like that title, actually." Martin smiles.

"Now you're not even trying to be subtle about avoiding the question."

"Just building the suspense. Giving you something to chase."

"Would you _like_ to end up like the other things I've hunted?"

"Maybe another time."

And doesn't _that_ give Tim a whole flood of images that won't be leaving his brain anytime soon.

"So what is it?"

"When was the last time you hunted?"

Something like embarrassment descends over Tim. "I don't know," he sniffs, pulling away. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm not being a dick, Tim," Martin reaches out to pull him back, turns him to face him with gentle fingers. His eyes are open and earnest, and for once Tim believes the expression. "It's been a while, hasn't it? I can tell. You're hazy, unfocused. Irritable. _Hungry_."

"Oh."

"You can't survive on the scraps the Eye feeds you forever."

"You'd be surprised how hard it is to hunt things, even in a city like London. I don't have the ability to just make things disappear, like that cop - Tonner. She can just chase things and kill them and call it mistake whenever she feels like it. I have to be careful."

"You're going to starve."

"I know, alright?" Tim snaps pushing himself up to sitting. "I fucking know that. I don't need you to tell me."

"Tim-"

"You always sit there and watch me and say things just to get a reaction. I'm not your personal circus show. You can make everyone else dance to your tune, but me- I thought that we'd-"

His words shut off with a frustrated groan, and he settles for scrubbing his face distractedly with his hand. It was stupid of him, to think that Martin would be anything other than his nature. To think that he could be an exception to the rule. To think that maybe what's been going on between them was somehow _more_ , somehow _meant_ something. That it isn't just two lonely, violent people seeking solace from the dark.

"Tim." A hand, light and tentative, rests on his shoulder. Martin's voice is so soft, so open, that Tim looks up immediately.

Martin's eyes shine in the darkness, his face naked without his glasses to frame it. His curls are a halo of flame. And there's such _loneliness_ in that face. He's always known that the Lonely has tugged at Martin's heels all his life - that earthen, misty scent clings to him like a second skin, kept at bay only by gossamer threads and the unrelenting gaze of the Eye.

Here, now, Tim can see the truth of it. That Martin is always a single step from the edge of a cliff. To hold the strings, to be the piper instead of the dancer- what a lonely life that must be.

"I wasn't trying to push you," Martin says quietly. "I'm worried, really. Not just because you're the only one who- or, because I worry about what you might do if you get too hungry. I just..."

He's never seen Martin so wrong-footed. On the one hand, it puts him at ease - that even this careful, calm figure can stumble, can doubt.

On the other, it feels so _wrong_ , and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and wait for Martin to put himself back together. If there is one constant in this world, it is Martin Blackwood.

He's not sure when that fact became such a rock, or how concerned about it he should be.

"I know," Tim sighs, taking the hand on his shoulder and lacing his fingers into it.

They haven't done this before. Their relationship is not one of holding hands and talking through their emotions. They are push and pull, swords striking together in night air, unrelenting fire and boiling blood. They are two steps away from tearing each other to shreds.

Something, in this moment, is broken.

Tim isn't entirely sure he wants it fixed.

"I'm- uh, sorry," Tim tries, all too aware of the way their palms are pressed together. He's slept with Martin more times than he count, remembers every electric spark of contact, and somehow this is the one that feels too intimate.

"It's okay," Martin shrugs. "You're hungry."

"Yeah."

He's barely noticed the gnawing in the pit of his stomach, the tug on the barbed wire wrapped around his soul. He's been too tired, too busy, too on edge. As he's gotten angrier, and weaker, and blamed it all of stress.

Now he sees it in the tremor in his free hand. Feels it in the dizzy waves and hollowness of his limbs. He is too cold, blood dormant and mellow without the call of the hunt singing through every cell.

If he lets himself starve long enough, would the hunt leave him for good? Or would he simply cease to be without it?

Is it the only thing left keeping him alive?

It doesn't matter, he realises. It's too much a part of him; he doesn't _want_ to lose it. He needs it, like Martin needs to be in control, and Jon needs to know things. Call it addiction, call it nature, call it curse - the thrill of the hunt is one of the few things anymore that makes him _feel_ alive.

"You need to hunt," Martin says slowly. His free hand travels up to comb through Tim's hair, each tug slightly too rough, and somehow exactly what he needs to ground him. "And I think I know exactly what might do it."

"Tell me," he says, more desperately than he would like. But there are no pretenses around Martin, no need for veneer.

"You know how the archives have felt- _wrong_ , for the past few months?"

"I guess? I figured that was just Elias paying a particularly close eye on his growing archivist."

"Mm, maybe. It took me a while to place the source - she's _good_ , I have to admit, even with all my abilities it took me longer than I'd like."

"You're being cryptic again," Tim rolls his eyes, attempting to smother the fire that's sparked in his gut. Even the prospect of a hunt overwhelms him with hunger, derailing his thoughts to a single, unrelenting track.

"It's Sasha."

Tim blinks. "Sasha?"

"You must've noticed she's been acting weirder than usual the past few months. Aloof, untouchable. We've put it down to everyone being a little off after Jane Prentiss, but it's more than that. She doesn't speak about anything personal. She doesn't go for drinks. She doesn't laugh."

"What are you saying?"

But he knows. He can see it, already, mapping out in front of him. The Stranger never announces its presence, but it twists itself into your life, makes you question everything. Paranoia and psychosis. The unbelieavable and the entirely plausible sewn into a single, monstrous thing.

He feels sick. He's been working with that thing for _months_ , talking to it, trying to cheer it up when he worried it wasn't acting like itself.

How could he be so oblivious?

"I think-" Martin hesitates, half because of what he's about to say, half because Tim - when he wants to be - is downright terrifying. "I think it ate Sasha the day Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute."

Tim waits for the shock, the fall. He waits for the grief, several months delayed, to crash down on him and leave him on his knees.

It doesn't come.

He doesn't even know who he would be grieving.

He stares into his hands, so hard his head hurts, and finally something does come. It's familiar, fills him up, washes over everything else and leaves him feeling some semblance of calm.

It's that old rage. A dull thing, usually, simmering in his gut, tingeing the world in just the slightest shade of red.

Now it rises up inside him like a tidal wave, the colour of fresh, beautiful blood.

He looks up to see Martin smiling at him, satisfied and - Tim could swear - _excited_. "How would you like to go hunting with me?" he asks.

Tim's reply is a wolf's grin, razor edged and glinting.


	4. imperium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [past - early season 2]  
> imperium - "control, command"

Despite his realisation that Martin is far more than he seems, getting him alone becomes impossible. Jane Prentiss and her worms descend on the Archives, throwing the world into chaos. He runs for his life, from burrowing, terrible things that no powers Tim has, or Martin might have, can stop.

He emerges scarred, alive, and hungry.

But after that, it's as if Martin is suddenly the most popular person in the building. Jon is hanging around watching them both, or Sasha is co-opting him into helping her with a case she can't quite understand, and he vanishes out the door at 6pm sharp every day, leaving no trace.

Finally, after _weeks_ , Sasha is sick with the flu, and Jon is mysteriously not in his office, probably doing something illegal.

And it's just the two of them in the basement.

He finds Martin scanning the files Jon has labelled "Hoax". Tim knows for a fact that several of them are actually entirely true, but he won't go against Jon on that. It's quite entertaining, watching the mental backflips the archivist can force himself to do.

Of course, he's on the precipice of realisation after the attack. But Tim won't be the one to push him over the edge.

He pushes his hands into his pockets, curling his fingers around the knife there. It grounds him, makes him feel safe.

It makes him feel electric, and directed, and the hunger for blood sharpens his teeth to points behind his lips.

"Tim."

Martin doesn't look up from the shelves, and Tim doesn't make a single sound when he walks, and yet he can feel Martin's attention on him like a weight.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Martin is just far deeper in the clutches of the Eye than he first assumed.

"Martin," Tim says slowly, suddenly unsure. He had expected to confront the man, rough him up, interrogate him. He had expected the element of surprise. He's been so fixated on the task of getting Martin alone, he never really planned beyond that. "What are you doing?"

"Marking out statements," Martin says lightly, fingers dancing over the files. "I figure it'll be easier to reclassify them that way."

"Reclassify?"

"When Jon gets his head out of his arse and starts playing the game like the rest of us."

"What game?" His grip against his blade is white knuckled and shaking.

"Come on, Tim," Martin scoffs. "Don't insult me. I've seen you watching me - you're hardly subtle about it. I've seen the hunger in your eyes, that glow a little too yellow in the dark. The blood on your shoes you aren't as good at cleaning off as you think you are."

"And what does all that mean?"

"You're a hunter," Martin says simply.

The words take Tim's breath away. He's been hunting for _years_ now, and yet he's never heard it said so- simply. He doesn't talk to other avatars, finds them rather insufferable if he's honest.

He's never actually _talked_ about it.

"And you're a weaver," Tim shoots back, trying and failing to cover the shake in his voice. "A servant of the Web."

"Very good," Martin finally turns to face him, eyes alight with amusement, and fascination. This conversation is nothing more than entertainment to him. "I did wonder, if you'd figured it out. So many of your lot are mindless beasts. I'm glad that isn't you."

" _Mindless_?" Tim snarls. He can feel the blood rising inside him, that electric charge that makes him heady with power.

Before Martin can do anything, he draws his knife and runs towards him - no thought of what he wants, except the call for blood and flesh, hot under his fingers.

"Stop."

He says the word so softly, barely a whisper, and yet Tim hears it in every cell in his body, as if everything inside him has just been waiting to hear it.

He freezes immediately, locked in place, as his body betrays him to the whims of the man before him.

"Let me go," he grits out. Something like fear pounds in his heart, competing with the adrenaline lighting up his brain. Because an easy hunt is never fun - but this might just be.

"So you can hunt me down and kill me?" Martin tilts his head, examining Tim as if he is nothing more than a curious moth caught in a spider's web. "I don't think so, Tim. We're going to talk like adults, and then I'm going to let you go, and then we're going to go on with our lives. How does that sound?"

He feels exposed, a creature pinned down and trapped behind a glass display case. Martin looks into him and sees every thread, every motive, every desire, laid out like writing in a book for all to see.

"We can start simple," Martin says with a small smile, walking close enough to touch. If Tim had control of his own body, he could reach his hands around his throat and end this all here. "Why did you just try to kill me?"

"Because," Tim spits.

"Because?"

"Because you're a spider. Because you know what I am. Because your kind can't be trusted."

"That's very judgemental of you."

"Am I wrong?"

"Have I ever done anything to hurt you? To make you distrust me? Tim, have I ever _lied_ to you?"

Tim opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat. "No," he admits.

"You're here, I can only imagine, for some singular hunt that's lasted you years. And perhaps in part for the protection these hallowed halls provide. Am I right?"

Tim nods wordlessly. His body is beginning to go numb, the hunt ebbing away to a war of anger and fear.

"I'm here for the same reason. Protection, and knowledge. There's nowhere quite as perfect for the centre of a web as the eye of the storm."

"You've been manipulating me since the day I met you."

"Of _course_ I have, Tim," Martin laughs. It's a soft, beautiful sound entirely at odds with the situation. " _Everyone_ is always manipulating everyone else. They want you to like them, to pay attention to them, so they present themselves as something you might like. They want something from you, so they do something for you and expect a return. You've been manipulating _me_ \- or trying to, at least- since the day we met, too."

"I didn't-"

"Every time you spoke to me. Every time you laughed at my bad jokes or _accidentally_ touched my hand or bought me a drink at the pub. Tell me you didn't have an ulterior motive and I'll let you go."

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, the taste of metal spilling across his tongue. "I flirt with everyone I meet. You're not that special."

"Maybe not. Why do you flirt with them?"

"So they like me. So they underestimate me. No one questions the loud, charming man, because he seems so nice, and friendly, and open."

"No one expects poison if they see you swinging a sword."

Tim narrows his eyes. "I guess."

"And you call me manipulative. You have your noise, I have my quiet. We're no different, you and me."

Tim searches for something clever to say. Something that will free him from the looping logic Martin is threading around him, lowering his defenses. He comes up short.

Martin is so close to him he can feel his breath against his cheek, the warmth of skin, ghosting contact.

"Think you can behave yourself?" Martin asks, voice deadly soft, almost amused. It's the kind of tone that leaves no room for debate, that holds an undercurrent of steel.

Something tugs, hot and dizzy, in his gut.

"Yes," he spits, hoping to smother the flames, though every scrap of dignity seems to have left him at this point, anyway.

All of a sudden, the force holding his body still vanishes. He drops to the floor, limbs trembling, head spinning.

He takes a slow, steadying breath, trying to ground himself. HIs fingers grip the knife - the blade, this time. Relish the sudden burst of pain, the slickness of blood spreading across his palm. The scent of metal in the air is more calming than any drug could dream to be.

Martin kneels down into his line of vision, reaching out a hand to tip Tim's chin gently up to meet his eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks, and that soft, genuine kindness has returned. It doesn't feel hollow or fake, even in the light of what he's just witnessed.

He feels dizzy with the whiplash.

"I'm fine," he whispers.

"Give me your hand."

Tim offers his bloody hand, still wrapped securely around the knife. Martin's face splits with concern, and worry, and the hands he uses to pull the blade away are so gentle it feels wrong for them to be touching something so rough and violent.

"I've got some antisceptic and bandages, in my desk. Let me clean it up for you."

"It'll heal on its own," Tim shrugs. "Super healing's one of the perks of the trade."

"Doesn't mean it won't get infected," Martin tuts, suddenly all motherly and no-nonsense. "And Jon might question it if something this bad vanishes over night. Come on."

Tim lets himself be guided wordlessly back into their shared office. Sits quietly at the desk as Martin fusses over him, cleans the cut, wraps it so delicately in bandages. Watches how utterly focused he is on the task, how careful. There is nothing in the world except the two of them, and Tim feels suddenly certain that this _is_ the real Martin Blackwood, somehow.

"You're staring," Martin murmurs, not looking up. "Am I really that attractive?"

Whatever words had been on the tip of Tim's tongue vanish like so much smoke. Martin being _forward_ is not something he's ever dreamed of, even now.

Something flutters in his chest, heat rising in his cheeks.

"Just enjoying the view," he swallows, throat dry as sand.

"So you like being taken care of," Martin's lips tug into a small smirk. "I'll make a note of that."

And with that he stands, admires his work- and goes to leave.

"Where are you going?" The words fall from Tim's tongue before he can stop them, and he cringes at how suddenly desperate they sound.

Martin looks back, for just a moment. "We're at _work,_ Tim. I'm off to do some."

And he _leaves_.

Tim stares at the door blankly for several seconds, uncertain of what the hell just happened. The ghost of Martin's hands, on his palm, on his chin, burn against his skin.

He's well and truly fucked.


	5. venari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [present - late season 2]  
> venari - "hunt, chase"

They go to work like it's any normal day.

It's a practiced routine, at this point. They take the tube together, ankles hooked around each other as they sit - or, more often, arms looped around the same pole, crowded on all sides by other bodies. Breathing in the quiet steadiness of each other, in the chaos of the morning commute.

Martin always stops off at the coffee shop across the road from the Institute, leaving Tim to walk into work a legitimate amount of time before him. Sometimes they get a little distracted, and Tim will pull Martin in for a parting kiss, so fierce their teeth clash together, bloody their lips.

Today Martin doesn't leave him. Whether it's for support, or because he doesn't trust him not to go for that _thing_ the moment he sees it, Tim doesn't care. Matin is a solid constant, however shifting, in this strange, bloody world.

They arrive to find the Archives quiet. Jon's door is firmly shut, only the soft shuffle of him moving around inside escaping. The central desks are empty.

The scent of Sasha - or Not Sasha, Tim supposes with a shudder - is stale with age.

"She hasn't been here in a while," Tim mutters, the anger rearing up inside him, even as the idea of a chase, a real _hunt_ , sparks a fire.

"Any ideas?" Martin says, watching Tim's face with a close scrutiny that only adds to the heavy weight of the Watcher down here.

Except from Martin, it feels almost a comfort.

"Does she have any reason to think you know about her? Do you see any threads of- anything? A plan?"

Martin shakes his head. "The Stranger is... hard, to understand. There's very little logic in what it does. I think it genuinely just wants to feed. And what better place than somewhere so paranoid as the Institute?"

The idea that Sasha - the real Sasha, no more than a smudge in his mind, an empty hollow where the memory of a laugh, a smile, should be - was nothing more than a victim of circumstance makes Tim's blood boil.

Before he can voice the thunderstorm gathering in his chest, the door to Jon's office swings open. He feels Martin flinch beside him.

Jon is a _mess_. He's been a mess for weeks - months - now, a fevered bundle of paranoia and raw nerves. It's understandable, being the only one not in the know, and especially with the Stranger's presence, but- Tim has never been that good at forgiveness, and liking Jon has become a frustrating task recently.

But _loving_ Jon has been worked into his bones for years now, and it's a hard thing to shake.

Today, it's instantly clear that something has changed. Jon's hair is long and ragged, but tied out of his face. His eyes are wide and darting, but there's a- _conviction_ there, a steel that's been missing these past months.

A certainty Tim feels echoing in his own roiling thoughts.

"Tim, Martin," Jon says. His voice is strange, fractured. _Fearful_. But not _of_ them, for once.

 _For_ them.

"Alright, boss?"" Tim says carefully, leaning towards Martin subconsciously for support. There's a tension in the room that weighs heavy against his skin, that could go suddenly in any direction.

"Uh, yes- thank you, Tim. I- that is to say- I think that you- you both, should take the day off."

Tim blinks. That certainly wasn't what he expected. "Take the day off?"

"Yes," Jon nods, eyes darting behind them towards the door. Tim resists the urge to follow his gaze, letting his senses work for him. There's no one there. He's sure.

Mostly.

"I've been unfair to you both," Jon continues. "Put you under a lot of pressure. This hasn't exactly been a... pleasant work environment, the past few weeks, and I know that's my fault. I'm- sorry. I think we could all do with a break. So, take the day off. Tomorrow as well."

"Is everything okay, Jon?" Martin asks, walking forward almost as if he's approaching a wild animal. "You look-"

"I'm fine," Jon snaps, retreating a pace back into his office. "I'm fine, really. I'm just- I have things I need to do, and it would be better if you weren't here. To distract me."

Realisation twists in Tim's gut, cold and angry and- though he hates to admit it- scared.

Jon has no idea what he's doing. Jon doesn't even know the game he's playing. Any attempt to win will be met with disaster.

"Jon-" Martin starts.

"Sure, Jon," Tim interrupts, grabbing hold of Martin's hand and tugging him towards the door. "We'll get out of your hair. Don't get too crazy without us! Have fun!"

"Do you- have you seen Sasha?" Martin calls over his shoulder, stopping in his tracks with such force that Tim is tugged backwards. "We should let her know, too."

"Oh, no," Jon shakes his head, too vigorously to be anything other than suspicious. "I told her already. She'll be gone."

If Jon thinks his bitterly-spat statement is subtle, he's kidding himself. But TIm doesn't let himself show his concern, tugs Martin on with a speed that quickly puts the spider out of breath.

As soon as they reach the next level of the Insitute - the library - Martin puts his foot down, and they grind to a halt.

"Explain," he says shortly, cheeks flushed from climbing the stairs, brows knitted together. He tugs his hand away to fold his arms across his chest expectantly.

"Jon knows about Sasha."

"Yes, that much was obvious."

"So we're pretending to leave and following him."

"You think he knows where Sasha really is?"

"Don't you?"

Martin makes a noise, angry and frustrated all at once. "Jon is most of a mystery to me. I can hardly read him at all. Or do you think I _wanted_ him to hate me for the first six months of this job?"

Tim shrugs. "I thought it was some really weird and convoluted plan of yours."

"No, Tim! Generally I don't start out positive relationships with getting them to want me dead."

"That's how _our_ relationship started." Tim sniffs.

" _You're_ different. Most people don't respond well to- and anyway, Jon isn't a hunter."

Tim grabs hold of Martin's hands, pulls them close to him. For once, Martin doesn't even bother to look around at the other people that might see them, about how his actions will be perceived. His eyes are all for Tim.

It's not often that Tim is the most put-together, but he thinks he's come to understand Martin in a way even _Martin_ doesn't understand himself. He's so put-together, and in control, that everything can seem like a plan. But when things begin to veer off the tracks, Martin will either improvise with terrifying speed- or he'll dissolve.

Tim can see his strings beginning to unravel before his eyes.

"We follow Jon," Tim says softly, holding Martin's knuckles close, ghosting his lips across them. "We find the thing pretending to be Sasha. We save our boss from being a _total_ idiot and getting himself killed. We kill that thing and bury it somewhere no one will ever find it. And then we go home and get absolutely fucked."

Martin nods, a stuttering gesture, distracted by Tim. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and Tim wants nothing more than to kiss Martin stupid right now, find some dark corner of the library to push him against.

But they have time for that later.

* * *

They wait on the staircase for all of five minutes before Jon heads out. Breath held, they listen as Jon talks to himself - to his tape recorder - and confirms their worst fears. Jon is going after Sasha.

It's one of the things Tim has always loved about Jon: his inability to let something go. In research, it had made him a machine, following leads as far as they would go, and then further. Jon would die, quite literally, in the pursuit of knowledge.

Without Tim and Martin to follow him from the shadows, he probably would.

He walks to Artifact Storage. A table - the strange, twisting fractal table Martin received as a package from the creepy delivery duo - is the anchor for the Sasha-creature.

"It's _keeping_ her trapped," Martin whispers as they follow along, shrouded by Tim's ability to hunt prey unseen. He's not sure how his powers work exactly - it's not like they came with a manual - but they seem to be working in his favour. "Jon thinks he's destroying it, but really he'll be freeing it. It'll go on a rampage. It'll kill everyone in the Institute."

"Not very Stranger of it," Tim mutters bitterly.

"All rules go out the window when the Eye is involved. _Everyone_ hates us."

The _us_ throws Tim for a loop momentarily. Are they really so much a part of Beholding that they count as _us_? He's sensed the Eye curling itself, inextricably, around his soul since he began working in the Archives - seen the way Jonah Magnus watches them all down there with a particular hunger - but is he a part of it? Is he an _avatar_?

The line between Hunt and Eye, Web and Eye - it's pointless, in some regards.

But he trusts Martin, and he can't deny how useful it might be for him to channel both fears at once.

"Focus, Tim," Martin hisses, sensing his spiralling, and just the sound of his voice grounds Tim in the moment.

At first, he's following Jon's scent - tea-stained and inky, the scent of old paper and lavender. It's a distinctly older smell that threw Tim for a loop when they first met, along with the streaks of white hair. The fact that the Archivist is nearly ten years younger than him still stuns him.

But slowly, another scent pervades. It's Sasha in all the superficial ways, vanilla perfume and lemon lip balm, and the cat hair that never comes out of her clothes.

And yet, everything beneath is hollow, missing all the warm and fierce parts of Sasha that Tim was intimately familar with.

It's nothing but sawdust and wax.

The blood rises in his ears, even before he sees the curving shadow on the wall as that thing rounds the corner.

It seems to have forgotten its shape. An after thought, a refracted image in a funhouse mirror. Too tall, too thin, colour drained and too bright all at once. The logical side of Tim's brain cringes away just as the hunt urges him on.

It doesn't see them coming, doesn't stand a chance. It's too laser-focused on Jon, just around the corner and currently out of sight.

Tim has been hunting for a long time now, and over the years his ability to take avatars of the Stranger apart has honed to a fine skill.

He takes a beath to steady himself. To let the blood wash over him, the rage and heat sharpened into razors. He feels the cold of shadows on his skin, the warmth of Martin beside him, a steady heartbeat to Tim's hummingbird.

Then, in a single move, he strikes. HIs knife is abandoned - this is a kill he needs to feel on his fingers, now warped into claws.

He slashes forward with precision, with fury, and feels the rush of cold, sticky fluid this creature has for blood as it spills over his fingers. Feels the ribbons and wax paper this creature has for skin as it tears under his blades. The sawdust and cold, amorphous substance it has for insides, as they scatter across the floor.

It only has time for a single, echoing scream, before it falls apart.

The blood fades from his ears in a slow, distant ebb. Sawdust particles hang, suspended in the air like gold dust. His fingers are sticky, completely human now.

The fire in his chest, that has burned hungry and violent for weeks on end, dulls to a steady smouldering ember. In the absence of adrenaline he feels hollow, barely held up by his own strength.

"Tim," Martin says softly, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. "It's over. Let's go."

Tim blinks slowly. "Yeah," he says, as if speaking through cotton wool. The satisfaction of the hunt is beginning to flood his veins, a high that sends him so far above the clouds he's sure he'll never come down. THe world is nothing more than a distant spec.

He clings to Martin for support, a balloon tethered by a single string to the ground.

"Who's there?" Jon's voice, angry and afraid, echoes through the halls. "Show yourself!"

"Let's go," Martin says again, and Tim doesn't argue. He folds them both into shadow, and they vanish to a swirl of sawdust, and the afterscent of lemon lipbalm and vanilla perfume.


End file.
